


I wanna feel a little numb tonight

by TheWayneManner



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: AKA hook ups have been had but the relationship is still developing, Alcohol, Angst, Explicit Language, Good Slade Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intoxication, M/M, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Protective Slade Wilson, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Slade's family is mentioned, Smut, This is pre-relationship but post-smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, William Randolph Wintergreen (mentioned), check end notes for trigger warnings, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWayneManner/pseuds/TheWayneManner
Summary: Struggling with the aftermath of his rape, Dick just wants one night away from it all. One night away from the responsibilities and feelings of being Dick Grayson. One night to be anyone but Dick Grayson. One night to just be numb to it all.That is, until Slade Wilson shows up and things don’t quite go according to plan.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 297
Collections: Dick Grayson Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MFLuder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/gifts).



> MFLuder, I ended up combining the general ideas of your two prompts… I did lean a little heavy on the second prompt so I hope you like it!  
> Prompts:  
> 1\. “A fic that really explores Dick’s feelings about being raped and how it affects his relationships” AKA "something really Dick-focused, emotionally."  
> 2\. “Anything that focuses on a slutty!Dick” AKA “An exploration of Dick’s sexuality in an emotional and physical way.”
> 
> All you really need to know before you read this fic is that in Nightwing #93 Tarantula aka Catalina Flores raped Nightwing aka Dick Grayson. This scene does not take place in this fic, this fic is more about the aftermath of the rape involving Dick’s feelings so the rape will only be vaguely alluded to. So, TRIGGER WARNING, rape is alluded to but it does NOT explicitly happen in this fic NOR does Catalina appear in this fic so you WON’T be subjected to Dick confronting his rapist. Any and ALL sexual content that does take place in this fic is 100% consensual. Well, that’s all folks, enjoy!
> 
> See End Notes for chapter trigger warnings aka potential spoilers.
> 
> This chapter was largely written to the song We Own The Sky by M83, just thought I’d drop that on you Incase you want a little music with your reading experience ;)

Fuck Dick Grayson and fuck Nightwing.

Tonight, he wanted to be anybody but himself. Preferably, he wanted to be no one at all.

Crawling through his bedroom window and shutting it with more force than strictly necessary, he carefully maneuvered himself around the various casefiles scattered across the floor, taking care not to disrupt the precariously balanced takeout boxes that with each passing day were beginning to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa more and more. The sad truth was that his floor was more 'casefile' and 'takeout box' than it was hardwood flooring.

His bedroom had long since surpassed 'messy' and had graduated to a bona fide disaster zone. If he had given even the slightest fuck, he might have made an attempt to find a trash bag and, at the bare minimum, thrown away the things that looked like they were growing their own mini-biomes, but alas, Dick Grayson had zero fucks to spare.

After wriggling out of the remnants of his Nightwing suit and kicking it under his bed to join the other dirty clothes, he began working off his jockstrap, taking himself in his hand and sighing at the instant relief of removing the offending article. Absently rolling his balls in his palm, he made his way to his small ensuite bathroom, dropping the slightly discolored jockstrap along the way to join the ever-growing mess on the floor.

Flicking on the lights to the bathroom, his eyes immediately went to the cracked mirror resting above the simple ceramic sink. He couldn't help but flinch at his reflection. The discoloration under his eyes was a startling deep-purple that resembled bruises rather than dark circles, and his skin was taut and adorned with a greyish hue that would look more at home on a corpse than an actual living and breathing human being.

The lighting of his small bathroom did nothing to improve his lackluster appearance. It was the type of artificial lighting that seemed to only exist in 24-hour convenience stores, making every slight imperfection of the skin glaringly obvious. Despite the undoubtedly unflattering lighting, Dick suspected the only lighting that could truly make a difference in his appearance and hide the look of death he was sporting was if there was, in fact, no lighting at all.

Eight hours of undisturbed sleep and a hot meal would probably do wonders for his complexion, but unfortunately for Dick's skin, he had other plans for the night.

Opting out of the shower he undoubtedly needed, he splashed cold water on his face and haphazardly ran his hands through his raven hair, trying to give it some semblance of order rather than the slightly greasy mess that it was. With any luck, everyone would think he was going for a 50s greaser look instead of the 'too depressed to shower' look.

Despite wanting to do the absolute bare minimum for tonight, he decided to apply a liberal amount of concealer under his eyes, assuming he'd have a better chance of getting laid if he didn't look like an extra off of The Walking Dead.

On a whim, he also applied some black eyeliner. He had always liked the way the liner would streak down his cheeks after giving head, and based on the commentary of his partners, they found the obvious evidence of his tears more than a little arousing. He was a performer at heart. Whether it was flying on the trapezes or giving sloppy head, Dick Grayson never half-assed a show.

He couldn't help but think back to the image he had made two nights ago, stumbling into his apartment from a night of faceless touches and empty praises. He honestly was surprised he had even made it home that night, let alone to his bathroom, where he had begun to unceremoniously strip out of his already disheveled clothes. After successfully getting his pants off, not without a struggle, he had found his reflection in the mirror. His lips pink, spit slicked, and swollen. His neck littered with purpling love bites, some of which had even broken the skin leaving traces of blood that stained his neck and the collar of what most definitely was _not_ the shirt he had left his apartment in. His hair was a mess, more of a mess than it usually was, his scalp tender to the touch. He could still feel the way the faceless stranger had gripped his hair as the man had fucked his throat open. If Dick closed his eyes, he could swear he could still hear the way the man's balls had lewdly slapped against his chin.

That night, standing in his cramped bathroom in nothing but a blue lace thong and half-buttoned shirt, he had traced the black liner that had streaked his face, reliving the moment where he had allowed himself to cry and how good it had felt to let the tears stream down his face unbidden, to let go and give in to the unrelenting thrusts that had him choking to the point where he thought he was going to suffocate on cock; how it had been the best he had felt in months. How in that moment he had come to the realization that choking on cock was what Nirvana must feel like.

Because choking on cock was forgetting _her_.

Choking on cock was _bliss_.

The memory of being completely and utterly fucked out sent a flare of heat to his lower stomach, causing his dick to twitch in interest. Gripping his shaft, he lazily stroked himself, taking a moment to savor the memory before turning his attention back to his eyeliner and cleaning up the edges with a shred of toilet paper even though he knew that by the end of the night his liner would be streaked down his cheeks anyways.

The makeup he decided to apply did make him look a little more alive, but only marginally. He still looked generally unkempt and sweaty, but where he was going, it wouldn't matter. In fact, he'd fit right in.

Satisfied with his general appearance (see: coming to accept that it wasn't going to get any better), he flicked off the bathroom light and headed to his closet. He wasn't going to have any trouble deciding what to wear tonight considering that the only shirt hanging in his closet was a single white button-up, it wasn't his favorite, but it would do. Taking the shirt out of the closet and tossing it onto his bed, he began his search for pants.

"Okay, pants. Pants, pants, pants," Dick muttered under his breath as he rummaged through his various drawers, only to not find any pants at all. Dick may have been no stranger to partaking in some decidedly scandalous outfits, but pants were one thing he was no longer willing to compromise on, his scaly-green panty days being far behind him.

Not having a choice, he got on his hands and knees and began to rummage through the mountain of dirty clothes that had accumulated underneath his bed, looking for the pair of navy-blue slacks that made his ass look like Aphrodite had sculpted it herself.

Standing up with his 'fuck-me pants' in hand, Dick distractedly threw them onto the bed as he continued to hunt for a—preferably—lace thong. He owned a couple of leather and cotton thongs, but the leather ones tended to chaff, and the cotton ones didn't necessarily scream sexy.

After six minutes of fruitless searching for a clean lace thong, Dick threw his hands up in the air in defeat and huffed a _Fuck it. I'm going commando_ before grabbing his pants and shimmying them up his hips, careful to avoid knocking over the takeout box version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Once his pants were on and his dick properly adjusted, he began to work on his shirt, leaving far too many buttons unbuttoned to be considered modest, but modesty was for church boys and boy scouts, not for boys who wanted to get fucked silly, which Dick was—unsurprisingly—the latter of.

Having his pants and shirt fixed to his satisfaction, he made quick work of his belt, socks, and shoes, and with one last cursory glance at his reflection, he grabbed his keys and headed out the door in search of a night of forgetting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Sexual Content, Reminiscing about past consensual sex with unnamed male, aka one-night stands are referenced.
> 
> Huge shout out to everyone who took the time to read this chapter and also a shout out to MFLuder for the prompt that tortured me for several months until I finally had an epiphany that has made this one of the most enjoyable writing experiences, I have ever had.
> 
> I hope everyone who read this short chapter enjoyed it, but I especially hope MFLuder enjoyed it since this fic only came about because of you.
> 
> As always I am desperate for feedback, so please let me know the good, the bad, and the ugly when it comes to what you thought about this fic!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, sorry it took me so long to get this out. I kept thinking I was almost done only to get bitch slapped with a 'no you're not' and then Thanksgiving happened..
> 
> See End Notes for chapter specific Trigger Warnings.
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter: Until There Is No End by Lorn  
> Cold Feet by Loud Luxury  
> Ice by Lorn  
> If you plan to listen to the music while you read the fic, I suggest you listen in that order.

It wasn't by accident that Dick found himself in Oblivion.

For one, no one ever 'accidentally' stumbled into Oblivion. The only marker that even alluded to the club's existence was a nondescript black-glass door that had the word _oblivion_ etched into it. It was the type of door that was hidden within the ever-present shadows of Gotham and only called out to those in true need of its services.

Secondly, the patrons of Oblivion came intentionally and for one reason and one reason only—to forget.

To forget their worries, to forget their sad and lonely lives, but primarily, to forget who they were

The nightclub had a reputation of sex, drugs, and alcohol, like most Gotham clubs, but what set Oblivion apart from the other clubs was the unspoken agreement among its patrons of _anonymity_.

Once you walked through the door of Oblivion, you ceased to exist, the shadows and blue-hued lighting of the club washing away everything that made you, you. Stripping you of your class, mistakes, and name. Leaving you just as faceless as everyone else. Just another warm body to press against, to forget with, nothing less and nothing more.

Oblivion was everything Dick wanted.

Oblivion was everything he needed.

From the moment Dick had walked into Oblivion, the shadows and dim lights of the club had melded together, swathing him in a protective blanket of blacks and blues and adorning him with a mask of anonymity. It was as if the River of Lethe had surged up from the Underworld, surrounding him completely and wholly. Its forgetful waters pouring down his throat and with it, drowning the man that had once been Dick Grayson and leaving him to be whoever he decided to be for the rest of the night.

The thrum of the music that reverberated throughout the club was languid and sultry with a desperate edge to it, coaxing him further into the club with the skill of a forlorn lover who promised to lull him into the amnesiac stupor he so desperately craved.

As he made his way down the darkened hallways of Oblivion, he passed various couplings of faceless lovers who had taken refuge in the hidden alcoves. Their moans and gasps mixing seamlessly with the music that permeated the club, making it impossible for him to tell the beat of the music from the slap of skin on skin.

Just as he was stepping into the main room of the club, a drunken couple tumbled into him, heedless of his presence. They smelt of sex and sweat and were laughing with their heads tossed back in mirth. They clung to each other as if their laughter threatened to shake them apart. It was the kind of mirth that could only be found at the end of a bottle or in the form of a little colored pill, so overwhelming that it muted every other feeling. It was a beautiful kind of numbness, one that Dick would be lucky to find by night's end. But in truth, he'd settle for any kind of numbness.

Bouncing off of him, the couple stumbled towards the alcoves, taking their laughter with them and leaving Dick to his search for oblivion. 

___________

The thing about Oblivion was that the passage of time didn't seem to exist. In the dim lighting of the club, minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like seconds. It was a paradox that made Dick's head hurt if he thought about it for too long, but time paradoxes and other time-related bullshit were beside the point. The _point_ was that Dick had no effing clue how long he had been in Oblivion. Minutes? Hours? It was anyone's guess.

The one thing that Dick did know was that he needed another drink, preferably two. He was well past tipsy but not quite numb yet. And numb was precisely what he wanted to be.

Making his way back to the bar, Dick wadded through the dozens of sweat-slicked bodies on the dance floor, avoiding the various hands of faceless strangers that reached out towards him, trying to pull him back into the pulsing crowd. It was tempting to just give in to the pulls and pushes and let the mass of blurred faces and hot bodies consume him. To let their arms and hands wrap around him like a vise that would never let go, to let their hot breath and tongues choke him until he was gasping for breath, to let their sultry whispers and promises soothe his body and soul.

But he couldn't lose himself completely, not yet at least. He couldn't risk their heated touches turning into hers, their tongues snaking their way into his mouth and tasting of her, or having them whisper in his ear, only to hear her voice.

He couldn't risk them reminding him of _her_.

With a renewed determination, Dick pushed himself through the thick crowd towards the bar, shaking off the hands that grabbed at his own and ignoring the lewd propositions that followed.

It wasn't until he had made it to the bar that he realized two small blue pills had been pressed into his palm. He must have been more drunk than he initially thought if he hadn't noticed the handoff, but obviously still not drunk enough if he was still able to form a coherent thought.

After distractedly giving the bartender his drink order, Dick's attention went back to the little blue pills in his hand. It wasn't the pills themselves that intrigued him but rather their color—a pale blue.

It seemed that blue was the color of the night.

From the midnight blue dresses and shorts that hugged Oblivion's dancers and the sapphire gems that lined their eyes to the club's scarce lighting that tinted everything it touched in a shade of blue, Dick found himself surrounded by blue.

But the bluest part was the wave of people that made up the dancefloor. The azure lights of the club dancing across their faces, making them all look as if they were underwater. As if they were sirens of the deep making promises of tranquility and peace, if only he was brave enough to follow them to hidden depths.

Oblivion was the color of tranquility and peace.

Oblivion was blue.

Oblivion came in the form of a tiny blue pill.

Chasing oblivion, Dick dropped a single blue pill into one of the two-shot glasses that had been placed in front of him and downed both shots in quick succession while stashing the other pill in the back pocket of his pants.

Making his way back to the dancefloor, time seemed to skip.

One moment he was on the edge of the crowd reaching to meet the hand that was extended towards him in invitation, and the next moment he was in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by blue-lit bodies that whirled around him as if he was an immovable rock amid a maelstrom, moving faster and faster until the lines of individuals began to blur together, leaving him to wonder where one person began and where the other ended.

The people themselves soon ceased to exist as they morphed into streaks of swirling blues.

It was beautiful. They were beautiful.

Entranced, he reached his hand out towards them and watched as the azure lights they had become dance across his skin, wrapping around him like tendrils emerging from the sea to lay claim to what would inevitably belong to the oblivion that was the ocean of blue surrounding him.

And God, that was all he wanted, to belong to the oblivion, to fall into it and never stop falling. To leave everything that made him Dick Grayson behind. To leave her behind.

All he had to do was say yes to oblivion.

Oblivion came in the form of a small blue pill.

Taking the small pill out of his back pocket, he placed it in the palm of his hand as the blue lights continued to swirl around him, picking up speed and urging him to take the leap into oblivion. There was no doubt it would be enough to tip him over the edge, allowing him free fall into oblivion. To forget it all, to forget her, to forget himself.

All he had to do was open his mouth and swallow. It was easy. So why was he hesitating?

He just had to say yes, and he'd forget it all.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn't want to forget it all because all included Bruce and his brothers.

It included his friends; it included his parents. It included everyone he loved.

He knew forgetting them wouldn't be forever, only for a night, but he didn't want to live a second of his life if it meant not remembering his family.

He didn't want to forget how Tim would laugh and whoop as they train surfed after a successful night of patrol, his face bright with boyish glee, something that Dick wished he would see more often on his brother's usually stoic face.

Tim's laugh was one of Dick's favorite sounds. It never failed to bring a smile to his lips when he heard it. Even now, just the memory of his brother's laugh brought a ghost of a smile to his lips.

Nor did he want to forget the few and far between moments where he and Jason would manage to stop bickering long enough to sit on the rooftops of Gotham watching the sunrise as they shared chilidogs and a compatible silence. He had wasted so much time when Jason was younger that now any chance he got to be around the younger man, he soaked it up greedily.

As Jason watched the sunrise, Dick would watch him, memorizing every line, curve, and freckle of his brother's face, making the most of his second chance of getting to see his first baby brother grow up to be a man broader and taller than himself.

His eyes pricked with tears at the thought of forgetting Damian calling him dad for the first time. It had been after one of Scarecrow's first attacks since Bruce had been lost in time, leaving Dick to take up the mantle. He had rushed Damian back to the cave after the younger's rebreather had cracked, dosing him with a new variation of fear gas. Without a sure antidote, Dick had held Damian's shivering form close to his chest as the boy whimpered at whatever nightmarish images Scarecrow had unleashed in his mind.

Once Damian had quieted long enough for Dick to think the boy had fallen asleep, he had carried him up to his room and had gently laid him beside Titus in his bed. But just as Dick was pulling away, Damian had reached out towards him and whispered a broken, _Dad, stay. Please._

Dick thought that Damian had confused him for Bruce, but Damian didn't call Bruce dad. He called him father. The realization had made Dick's heart swell with love, and he spent the rest of the night curled around Damian's small form, holding the boy close and silently promising to never leave him.

He had never felt love as consuming and unconditional as he had felt it that night. It was one of his most meaningful memories, and he refused to part from it for even one second.

But it wasn't just his brothers he couldn't stand to forget for just a night. He couldn't bear the thought of forgetting Bruce or how the man had let him crawl into bed with him when he was a child, too afraid of the dark and memories that lurked there to fall asleep on his own. Bruce would pull him to his chest and softly sing to him in his deep and soothing baritone voice, lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

Many things between him and Bruce had changed since Dick had grown up, but one thing that would never change was the safety and unending comfort Dick felt when he was wrapped in Bruce's arms. He knew without a doubt that there was no safer place in the world than encircled in Bruce's arms. And even though he'd never said it to the man's face, Bruce was his dad, and there wasn't anything he wanted more right now than to be at the manor wrapped in his dad's warm and strong embrace.

Dick hated himself for even entertaining the thought of letting himself slip into a drug-induced stupor that would have no doubt dulled and tarnished some of his most treasured memories, causing him to lose precious details of those memories.

Had the 'great' Nightwing really been reduced to such a pitiful state that he was unable to handle a couple of bad memories, ones that he should have gotten over weeks ago now?

She had made him weak where he once was strong.

In a heated act of defiance towards her and everything she had taken from him, he threw the small blue pill to the ground, refusing to let her take anything else from him.

But as he watched his key to oblivion disappear into the azure lights of the crowd, he could feel the panic begin to creep up his spine, slowly overtaking the determination and defiance that had filled him not only moments ago.

He tried to tell himself that he was stronger than this. That he could handle a couple of bad memories without the aid of a little colored pill, but the memories of her seemed to surge to the forefront of his mind the minute the blue pill had left his hands, condemning him to remember.

To remember her and the way she felt too hot against his skin, the way her whispered voice seemed to grate on his eardrums, the way that her tongue had tasted sour and thick against his own, making him want to gag.

The realization that his punishment for saying no to oblivion was to relive that night paralyzed him in his place.

The trickle of panic he had felt earlier, now a flood, as if the weak damn he had put up had collapsed entirely.

He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. It was all crashing down on him, and he couldn't fucking move!

It was all too similar to that night. He couldn't move then either as she crawled atop of him, settling herself against his hips, unable to push her away or stop her. His legs limp, and his arms laying uselessly at his sides. Her hands running down his chest until she reached his—

He was going to be sick.

As if the strings that had been holding him up were cut, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air, but the air didn't come.

He could feel himself slipping back into the memory of her. The darkness surrounding him taking the form of her clawed fingers and dragging him back to the night she had stolen choice from him in more than one way. He tried to scream and shout for her to leave him alone, to give him back what she had so severely broken in him, but all that came out was a pitiful whimper, one that the darkness was content to ignore.

In a desperate attempt at salvation, he reached a shaking hand toward the blue lights, begging for their forgiveness and for them to pull him into oblivion with them, to not leave him to the mercy of the memory of her. But as he reached out, the lights began to fade around him, submerging him in an icy darkness and leaving him completely and utterly alone.

As the last lights flickered out of existence, the darkness's icy lips embraced his.

The kiss was suffocating and cold, smothering the last flame of weak breath that resided in his lungs and threatening to freeze him whole. He tried to pull away, to gasp for air, but the darkness's frigid lips were unrelenting, intent on depriving him of the air his lungs burned for.

He couldn't breathe, he was going to die, and his last thought was going to be of her.

Silent tears were now flowing freely down his cool cheeks as he wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to give himself some semblance of comfort. He began to focus on the sound of the slam of his heart against his chest, afraid that if he didn't, he'd begin to hear her toxic whispers emerge from the shadows that surrounded him. But with every passing moment, the lack of air became more and more crushing, making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of being snuffed out.

His breaths came quick and shallow, yet the air his lungs craved still didn't come. It wouldn't be long till the darkness completely took him.

A haggard sob racked his already struggling body, he didn't want to be lost to the darkness. He was desperate to escape it but to do that, he needed to—

 _Breathe._

The word startled him, causing his choked breaths to freeze completely. It was much too loud to be a thought in his head and far deeper than his own voice. 

_Breathe,_ the voice commanded once more. He would be worried that it was her voice he was hearing, but the voice was unmistakably male. 

Could it be that it was the darkness's voice he was hearing?

He had never thought of the darkness as a man, but rather a cruel woman who preferred for her silence to speak for her rather than words.

But if the voice did belong to the darkness, then why would it be commanding Dick to breathe when it was the cause of his failed breaths?

Try as he might to listen to the voice, Dick couldn't breathe when every inhale was only met with the darkness pushing itself further down his throat, continuously choking him and robbing him of the breaths his lungs burned for.

_Breathe!_ This time the command was shouted and laced with an edge of desperation. Who knew that darkness could sound so desperate? The thought would have made him laugh if his throat wasn't busy collapsing in on itself.

_Damn it, Grayson! Breath!_ The voice bellowed, and this time, his eyes flew open with the command.

He was half expecting to be met with the face of darkness, but instead, he found himself bathed in the soft blue lights of the club, staring back at a familiar, singular, grey eye.

In a moment that seemed all too fast, the darkness was gone. He still couldn't breathe properly, but somehow, he managed a single strangled word.

"Slade?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Recreational Drug Use, Bad Drug Trip, Panic Attack, Unreliable Narrator, References to Past Rape non-explicit.
> 
> I hope this chapter wasn't confusing. Dick is drunk and high and its told from his POV so I wanted to convey his addled mental state throughout this chapter.... 
> 
> Let me know what you thought about the chapter??? I live for comments, critiques, and suggestions! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @thewaynemanner


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-boy, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it turned into an 8k+ monster, so I decided to break it up into two chapters. The last chapter is finished but still needs to go through editing so you can expect chapter 4 sometime this week, but until then enjoy chapter 3! 
> 
> EDIT: As of January 13th, Chapters 1 and 2 have been edited. No drastic changes to the plot were made, but some grammar mistakes and atrocious spelling errors were corrected and in general, the chapters just read better after the few tweaks I made.
> 
> See Trigger Warnings at End Notes

An armful of intoxicated Dick Grayson on the verge of hyperventilating himself into unconsciousness was _not_ how Slade imagined his night going.

It was only by pure chance that Slade even noticed the kid amongst the throng of sweat-slicked bodies that filled the dimly lit dancefloor of Oblivion—decidedly, the last place he would ever expect to find the little bird. Oblivion had a very _unique_ clientele, and Dick just didn't fit the profile as far as he was concerned.

The club wasn't Slade's typical scene either. It was a little too 'let's get high and fuck over a come splattered toilet' for his tastes, but he was working a job, and sometimes a job took you to shitty places, and you just had to deal.

Upon entering the Oblivion, Slade had strategically settled himself in a corner booth that gave him an unobstructed view of the club and all of its inhabitants, allowing him to lay in wait for his target in semi-comfort.

For the better part of two hours, he passed the time absently scratching at the white crusted stains that peppered the blue velvet upholstery of the booth and sipping on a steady flow of mediocre Jack and Cokes. But after nearly three hours of scoping the place out and still no sign of the man, it was clear the lead had been bust and, more importantly, an utter waste of his time.

Slade could practically hear Wintergreen's 'I told you so' for him trusting the information of someone outside their network of informants. But Wintergreen wouldn't be as crass or merciful to say 'I told you so' outright. No, the man would undoubtedly subject Slade to one of his nonsensical 'British' idioms that he insisted were meant to impart some greater lesson onto Slade.

Slade was of the opinion that they were utter bullshit.

The last time he had been forced to endure one of the man's imparting 'wisdoms' was when Wintergreen had been stitching together his nearly blown off arm after a job gone wrong.

He had told Slade, with all the cool composure and sagacity of a saint, that, 'This is what happens when you trust the butcher's six-fingered daughter to do the work of two Lancashire whores.' When Slade had asked him what the fuck that was supposed to mean, Wintergreen had just clucked his tongue and shook his head in mild disappointment like a parent dealing with a particularly slow child.

Only Wintergreen could make a 57-year-old, super-soldier turned deadliest mercenary feel like a dim-witted child.

Annoyed and not wanting to ponder any longer about which convoluted idiom Wintergreen would be slapping him with when he eventually called to let the man know the job had been a bust, Slade began to push himself up from the booth so he could make his way to leave. However, he paused mid-motion when a familiar face amid the club's bustling blue landscape caught his eye, or more specifically, a familiar little bird.

Slade couldn't help the predatory grin that stretched across his face at the sight of his favorite ex-Boy Wonder. It had been far too long since he had run into Dick, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity to get 'reacquainted' slip by. Wintergreen and his idioms would have to wait.

There wasn't really a label that described what he and Dick were to each other. What they had was _complicated_ , but it was also undeniably amusing and, more often than not, ended with a good time.

And a good time was _exactly_ what Slade needed right now.

Initially, he had figured that Dick was working a case. It wasn't uncommon for the hero types to go undercover, and though rare, Slade did occasionally cross paths with the Bats while they were working these kinds of cases. The most memorable of those occasions being a couple of months back when he had run into one of the bat-brat's crossdressing as a noticeably busty brunette.

Slade had momentarily entertained the idea of pretending not to recognize the Drake boy and flirting with the kid just for the entertainment factor of it all, to see if he could get a rise or, better yet, a blush out of the kid. But in the end, he had ultimately decided against it, not wanting the incident coming back to cock block him in the future if Dick found out about it.

He and Dick weren't necessarily exclusive, but there was an unspoken rule between them to keep their sexcapades to themselves. Don't let the other person see or hear about the other's flings.

And while Slade wouldn't classify a bit of harmless flirting, that was all meant as a joke anyways, as 'sexcapades' he didn't want to risk it getting back to Dick that he was flirting with seemingly 'random' people.

Though Dick would never admit it, he was a possessive lover. Slade had yet to leave one of their rooftop makeout sessions without multiple imprints of the kid's teeth on his neck or shoulder. Dick was a bitey-fuck and always looked far too satisfied with the purpling bruises he left littered across Slade's skin. But Slade didn't mind because he was just as, if not more, possessive of Dick.

And if tonight went right, Slade would be giving Dick many marks of his own.

However, it became apparent very quickly that tonight would not be going right at all.

As Slade watched Dick from across Oblivion, he noticed something _off_ with the kid. Where everyone else on the crowded dancefloor writhed against each other like the inky black asps Slade had seen in the snake pits of Nanda Parbat, Dick stood still, only occasionally turning in slow circles, looking lost and entirely out of place.

Dick was looking far too awkward for someone wanting to blend in with the crowd and keep a low profile, making Slade doubt his earlier assumption that Dick was here undercover.

Slade frowned, unsure what to make of it all. Maybe the bizarre behavior was all part of Dick's cover. Maybe the kid was trying to get noticed. But for what?

Slade scanned the entirety of the dimly lit club once more but didn't see anyone or anything that would have prompted Dick's change in behavior. He also didn't see anyone giving Dick an unusual amount of attention. For the most part, everyone in the club seemed to be in their own bubble paying Dick no mind at all. So, who was the kid putting the show on for?

It turned out that Dick wasn't putting on a show.

This was made abundantly clear as Slade watched Dick's legs buckle and heard the phantom thud of the kid's knees as they connected with the concrete floor.

For a moment, the situation seemed surreal, with there being no apparent reason or cause for Dick's sudden inability to stay standing. Nor did it help that everything was washed in a tint of blue, giving the whole situation a dreamlike quality and further displacing it from reality. But what truly made Slade question the authenticity of what he had just witnessed was that in spite of the dozens of people surrounding Dick, none of them reacted or even seemed to notice the kid fall.

They continued to dance around Dick, their movements slow and languid like the morning tide, keeping pace with the music of Oblivion. All of them either too high or unwilling to pay mind to the boy drowning among them.

Before Slade even registered he was moving, he was out of the booth and fighting his way through the tide of people that threatened to swallow Dick whole. No one fought against him, but they also didn't move out of his way, all too tightly packed together and oblivious to do anything more than keep their balance as Slade forcibly pushed them aside.

Slade had made it about halfway to Dick when he eventually lost sight of the boy. The sea of people had shifted, taking Slade's line of sight and Dick with them.

Cursing, Slade continued towards the last place he had seen Dick. This time putting a little more force behind his shoves and pushes while also making judicial use of his elbows.

When Slade eventually found Dick, the boy was hidden in the shadows of the crowd, looking much like a shadow himself. In fact, Slade would have entirely overlooked Dick if it weren't for a chance flash of azure light that managed to illuminate Dick's lean and shaking form.

It couldn't have taken him more than 20 seconds to find the kid, but it felt like hours had passed once he saw the state Dick had worked himself into during the short amount of time he had been out of Slade's sight.

He was curled entirely in on himself now, with his head tucked between his knees, his eyes screwed shut in a pained panic, and his fingers tangled in the raven strands of his hair that glinted blue in the dim light, looking smaller and more fragile than Slade had ever seen him before.

Needing to bridge the distance between them, Slade kneeled down next to Dick. But once his knees met the sticky floor of the club, he realized that was as far as his plan had gone and found he had no idea what to do next.

He eventually reached out towards Dick but stopped himself before actually touching the boy, leaving his hands to hover awkwardly and uselessly around Dick as he contemplated if the touch would be welcome or only make things worse.

On the one hand, he knew that Dick usually sought out comfort in the form of touch, but on the other hand, this very well could be a PTSD episode, and Slade had been around enough soldiers to know not to touch someone if they were in the midst of an active flashback.

Ultimately, Slade held off on touching Dick and focused on figuring out what exactly was going on with the kid.

The only time that Slade had ever seen Dick in a state that even remotely resembled this was when the kid had been fear gassed by Crane in one of the group-effort Arkham breakouts, and that had been nearly 8 years ago when Dick was still sporting pixie boots.

But this, whatever _this_ was, wasn't fear-gas. He was sure of it. Everyone else in the club seemed relatively calm and content, if not a bit dopped up, but definitely not fear-gas dopped up. And there was no reason for Dick's public persona to be singled out and targeted explicitly by Crane. Not to mention that Crane was safely locked away in his complimentary Arkham-brand padded cell the last time Slade checked.

Slade honestly would have preferred it to be fear-gas. He knew how to deal with fear-gas, and more importantly, he knew what to expect of it. But with this, he had no idea what to expect or how to deal with it.

At first, Slade had tried calling out the boy's name, but Dick had been unresponsive, not even twitching in acknowledgment that he had heard his name being called.

After 'Dick,' 'Richard,' 'Grayson,' all failed to get him any sort of reaction, Slade had even tried Nightwing, albeit much more quietly than he had said the kid's other names. But the result was the same—no acknowledgment, no reaction. If anything, Dick only seemed to be getting worse with each passing minute. His whimpers were becoming more frequent and increasingly louder, and there was no sign that Dick would be snapping out this anytime soon.

It was obvious that his being cautious was doing fuck all for Dick. There were only so many times he could call out the kid's name and watch it do jack-shit.

He was still wary of touching Dick, but he also couldn't just stand by and watch the kid slip further into trappings of his own mind.

Deciding to take a chance, that was most likely going to come back and bite him in the ass, Slade reached out and placed his hands over Dick's. The boy's fingers were still knotted throughout his hair, and as Slade pressed his hands against Dick's, he could feel the boy's hands clench and tug at the hair in a misguided attempt at self-comfort.

When Dick didn't worsen at the initial touch, Slade began to gently untangle the kid's fingers from his hair. If Dick pulled on his hair any longer or harder, he'd eventually start tearing out stands of raven hair, leaving his head a patchy mess—something that Slade knew Dick would thoroughly regret once he came out of his episode.

As he unknotted Dick's fingers from his hair, Slade replaced the boy's hair with his own fingers, giving Dick something he could hold and cling to with no consequence to himself. He would gladly take Dick clawing at his skin if it offered the kid a modicum of comfort. Hell, Slade would let Dick cut him open and play Operation with his organs if it would break Dick from whatever tortured trance he was stuck in. Anything at this point would better than watching the kid tear himself apart in a panicked frenzy.

It was just as he was removing Dick's last finger from his self-imposed rat's nest that he noticed the kid's occasional whimperings were morphing into gasping breaths. And it wasn't long until those gasping breathes began to morph into _rapid_ gasping breaths.

_Fuck._

It looked like chance had come to bite him in the ass after all.

The kid was starting to hyperventilate, and if Slade didn't get him to calm the fuck down, Dick was going to pass out with what he guessed was a BAC level over O.20%, judging by the way the kid smelt like he'd fallen into a vat of Grey Goose.

He needed Dick to breathe, and preferably before the kid slipped into an alcohol-induced coma and aspirated on his own vomit.

"Breathe," Slade said, squeezing Dick's hands as he spoke the singular word, trying to get through to the kid that he wasn't alone. That he was going to be okay. That all he had to do was breathe, and Slade would make sure of it.

After a few seconds, Slade repeated himself. This time making the word a command. Yet, the command was only met with Dick's nails biting into the skin of his hands and more choked gasps, these ones sounding increasingly more desperate and panicked.

Slade cursed under his breath. He was confident the kid was having a panic attack at this point, and it didn't help that the alcohol and most likely drugs (because who was he kidding, if you were at Oblivion, there wasn't a chance in hell you weren't doing drugs) in Dick's system were only exacerbating his symptoms.

"Breathe!" he demanded, but breath did not come.

He gripped Dick's hands tightly, too tightly, turning his own knuckles white as he watched the boy begin to twitch and convulse, his lungs trying to force the air that refused to come. The red blush that had once covered his skin was now turning an ugly purple, and in the azure lights of the club, it was all too eerily similar to watching someone drown.

Growling in frustration and seeing no other option, Slade let go of Dick's hands and forcibly pried the boy's head from between his knees until he had Dick's face resting between his palms. He was hoping that Dick seeing him would break the boy from the confines of his own mind, but Dick's eyes remained screwed shut, effectively shutting Slade and the rest of his surroundings out.

Even in a state of panic, Dick was proving to be the most insufferable and stubborn brat Slade had ever met. If Slade wasn't so busy trying to get the kid to breathe, he might've even commended Dick for his obstinacy. But as it was, it would be really fucking helpful if Dick did what he told him for just once in his goddamn life.

"Damn it, Grayson! Breathe!" Slade bellowed, with something akin to desperation fueling his words in one final attempt to rouse the boy from his fear-induced stupor.

He had no reason to believe that this time would be any different from his other attempts, but something must have reached the boy through the fog because as soon the command had left Slade's lips, Dick was jerking back from him, and blue eyes were snapping open.

Dick's eyes flickered wildly for several seconds, never quite landing on anything but obviously still taking in his surroundings. He's sure the boy's head would have darted alongside his eyes, but his face was held firmly in place by Slade's hands, preventing all and any head movement.

Eventually, the almost feral movements of Dick's eyes calmed enough for him to return Slade's gaze. His eyes were still wide with panic and tinged with desperation, the focus in them going in and out, but they were open, and they were seeing, and that was enough for now.

Slade was unmoving and patient as Dick took him in. It was evident by the look of trepidation on the boy's face that he didn't quite know what to make of Slade's presence, but despite his uncertainty, Dick was soon croaking out Slade's name.

The strangled ribbons of Slade's name were wretched, pained, and slightly wet sounding, similar to what he imagined a drowned man's voice would sound like in the afterlife. But despite the anguish in the boy's voice, his eyes reflected a look of longing and timid hope, as if he wasn't sure that Slade was really there, but yearned for it to be true, nonetheless.

Dick had never looked at him like that before, and Slade didn't know exactly how he felt about it now that the kid had. Heck, Slade had never had anyone look at him like that, like he was an oasis in a desert, a thirsty man's last hope. And maybe it was selfish, especially considering the circumstances, but now that he had, he couldn't help but think he wouldn't mind seeing that look again.

Slade swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and forced a crooked smile before replying with a soft yet genuine, "Hey, Kid."

Dick opened his mouth as if he was going to say something in reply, but all that came out was a choked croak. The timid hope that had previously crept into Dick's eyes once again bleeding back to wild panic at the realization that he still couldn't breathe.

Acting on instinct, Slade grabbed one of Dick's shaking hands and pressed it flat against his chest.

"Feel my breath and copy it," Slade instructed, covering the boy's hand with both of his.

Slade began to breathe, taking deep breaths in and exhaling slowly, never breaking eye contact with Dick as he let the kid feel the breath move throughout his own person in a dance not unsimilar to that of the inhabitants of Oblivion.

"Come on, kid. Just focus on the feel of my breathing and mimic it. Deep breath in and hold for a count of five and then a nice and slow exhale."

Dick's inhales were a little too quick, and his exhales were shaky, but he was eventually able to hold the breaths for five seconds, successfully slowing his breathing and curbing the worst of his hyperventilating.

"Good, again."

As he watched Dick reflect his breathing back to him, he noticed that kid's eye movement was still a bit irregular, occasionally flittering off to the side randomly or entirely losing their focus on Slade's face, but that was a problem for not right now. Right now, breathing was the only thing that mattered.

"Again."

Inhale. Hold for 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. And exhale.

"Again."

This time Dick's inhale was interrupted when one of the recently forgotten bodies surrounding them bumped into Dick's back, pitching the boy forward into Slade's lap. Slade's arms instinctually wrapped around Dick, pulling him further into his lap and protecting him from any further miss-steps from those around them.

He was honestly surprised that it had taken this long for some idiot to stumble into them. Still, Slade cursed himself for not paying closer attention to their surroundings. He needed to get the kid out of Oblivion and into some fresh air before some moron sent the kid into another tailspin.

"Keep breathing," Slade instructed, bringing his mouth to the boy's ear, "I'm going to get you out of here."

Not waiting for or expecting a reply, Slade proceeded to effortlessly scoop Dick up into a bridal's carry, only sparing a moment to cringe at the feeling of his slacks peeling away from the sticky floor as he stood with Dick in his arms.

Spotting a neon blue exit sign, Slade began to shoulder his way through the crowd, being sure to keep Dick cradled close to his chest and away from wandering hands.

The exit sign couldn't have been more than 10 yards away from them, but it felt like Slade was trudging through thickened sea foam as he pushed his way through the dozens of bodies that reached out towards him, trying to pull him back into the throng, all unaware or uncaring that they were the exact thing that Slade was currently trying to escape.

After what felt like a short eternity, he finally broke away from the crowd and made his way to the door illuminated by the blue exit sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Panic Attack, Intoxication, Possible medical inaccuracies AKA don't use this as a guide for someone having a panic attack. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving kudos and COMMENTS! Y'all's comments honestly breathe life into me and spur me on <3
> 
> Chapter 4 COMING SOON!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-boy, this chapter took far too long and was far too fickle, but the Fic is now DONE. So please enjoy this humble offering of SlaDick.
> 
> Song inspiration: Joanna by Sevdaliza (Which is actually the perfect song for this whole fic)
> 
> Friendly reminder, I am not a doctor and you should never take medical advice from FANFICTION. These are fictional scenarios and fictional characters, and in the wild land of fantasy, I can do things that you wouldn’t and shouldn’t do in real life. AKA I have taken creative liberties, do not use this as a guide.
> 
> See Trigger Warnings at End Notes

The door led to a darkened alleyway. It smelt of piss and garbage, and Slade could hear rats fucking and fighting each other in the heaps of filth and litter they’d collected. 

It was a hell of a far cry from ‘fresh air’ and nowhere near Slade’s top choice of venue to check the kid over in, but it would have to do. 

Though mainly dark, Slade could see unhampered with what little light was afforded to him by the weak glow of the few and dying nearby streetlights. It was more than enough light for someone with Slade’s abilities to see but not nearly enough light for the average unenhanced human to make out anything other than vague outlines and shapes—a mercy, considering the alley’s lewd state of squalor.

In true Gotham fashion, the alley was more of a dumpster than alleyway. Though Slade suspected that might actually be an insult to dumpsters across America considering the unparalleled vile state of this particular alleyway. Not only was it littered with a wide variety of garbage, but there also seemed to be a staggering amount (even by Gotham standards) of bodily fluids covering every available surface in the alleyway. 

Not even walls of the alleyway had escaped the assault of defacement, the red brick walls were adorned with colorful genitalia-themed Graffiti and although the Graffiti artist excelled in their depictions of enlarged phalluses, it was evident by the anatomical inaccuracies of the pictured female genitalia that they had never actually seen the vulvas they’d attempted to portray.

It was sad, in the most pathetic way possible. 

Resigning himself to the unpleasant atmosphere, Slade let the door of Oblivion fall closed behind him and took a step further into the alleyway with Dick still held securely in his arms. 

Slade grimaced when his first step into the dim alley was immediately followed by a squelching noise from under his loafer. A quick yet regretful glance at his shoe revealed that he had stepped on not one, but two come filled condoms.

“What an absolute shit night,” Slade grumbled as he balanced on one leg—supporting both his own weight and Dick’s—in a vain attempt to shake off the offending contraceptives. He would have preferred stepping in dog shit over this. 

Doing his best to ignore the situation going on with his shoe, Slade scanned the alleyway floor looking for a spot he could set Dick down on that wouldn’t result in the defilement of any more shoes. This turned out to be a more difficult task than one might think. 

Eventually, Slade settled on standing Dick onto an only slightly stained nudie flyer that boasted about a nearby strip joint’s free buffalo wings that came with every lap dance purchase. 

_Classy._

He doubted Dick would notice or even care where he was standing, but if he ended up having to carry the kid again, he didn’t want to risk a wayward foot getting come on his favorite sports coat, so slightly stained nudie flyer it was.

Once Dick was standing on his own two feet, Slade gave the kid a quick once over, ensuring that he hadn’t missed any apparent injuries while they were in the club. 

It wasn’t until Dick started to bat away Slade’s grip on his shoulders that Slade even realized he hadn’t completely let go of the kid. Which, in hindsight, was a pretty damn good decision since not even 15 seconds after Dick mumbled what Slade assumed was supposed to come out as a reassuring ‘I can stand on my own’—but mainly just sounded like a jumble of too many vowels—Dick was swaying forward in a fantastic, yet entirely unhelpful imitation of Raggedy-Ann’s drunkard of a brother.

If it weren’t for his hold on Dick, Slade’s sure the boy would currently be face down on the alleyway ground discovering a new bacteria culture with his mouth. But as it was, Dick was upright, and Slade was planning on keeping him that way.

Now that Dick’s panic and adrenaline had subsided, it was obvious the kid was crashing and crashing hard if the lack of coordination and slurred speech were anything to go by.

The only positive of the whole situation was that his erratic breathing had mellowed out to just slightly irregular breathing. It wasn’t ideal, but Slade would take it over the hyperventilating that only moments ago had threatened to escort Dick to unconsciousness. 

Trying to gauge Dick’s responsiveness, Slade told Dick to look at him, but the request was only met with a mumbled ‘I’m fine,’ that only made Slade think that Dick was anything but fine.

It wasn’t until Slade gripped Dick’s face between his fingers and forcibly turned Dick’s face to meet his gaze that the boy’s eyes finally met his. Slade was expecting a slightly glazed-over look but was startled to see that not only were Dick’s eyes unfocused, but they were also flickering around feverishly and completely unintentional by the looks of it. 

“Shit. How much did you drink tonight, kid,” Slade said under his breath, talking more to himself than to Dick as his eye raked over the boy once more. Dick’s skin was sweat-slicked, and his entire body seemed to be flushed red, not the best of signs considering they’d been in the cool, bordering on cold, Gotham air for already several minutes. Despite Dick’s breathing having evened out, he was in no doubt that the kid was still flirting with unconsciousness.

Slade wasn’t a medical professional by any means, but he sure as hell could recognize alcohol poisoning, especially when he was literally holding it in his hands. Slade was well acquainted with the signs and symptoms of alcohol poisoning, considering he once upon a time had a drunken daddy of his own who spent the weekdays getting shit-faced and weekends getting his stomach pumped only to do it all again starting Monday.

Hence, he knew this ended one of two ways. Either one, Dick slipped into unconsciousness and risked going into an alcohol poisoning induced coma or two, Slade prevented that from happening.

Slade, unsurprisingly, was going with option two, which required the contents of Dick’s stomach no longer being in his stomach.

Without ever completely letting go of Dick, Slade began to position himself behind the boy. He wrapped one arm under Dick’s own arms and across the boy’s chest, effectively drawing Dick’s back against his chest and allowing the back of Dick’s head to rest against his shoulder. 

With the hand that wasn’t busy supporting Dick’s weight, he gripped the boy’s face and squeezed until Dick’s mouth reflexively opened, all the while ignoring his mumbled protests. Slade then proceeded to shift Dick’s weight until it was supported mainly by Slade’s frame rather than his arm, allowing him to bring his other hand to Dick’s mouth and unceremoniously shove two fingers down the kid’s throat until he felt the tale-tale sign of Dick’s gag reflex kicking in.

Without letting go of Dick, Slade allowed the boy to hunch over and add the alcohol-prominent contents of his stomach to the already filthy alleyway floor. 

“There you go, kid. Let all that shit out,” Slade encouraged from his place behind Dick, holding the boy up as he spit in between the heaves that racked his body.

The only response Slade got was a pained ‘fuck’ that was shortly followed by a wave of dry heaving, but at least the kid seemed awake now.

After the last futile heave of Dick’s stomach, Slade half dragged and half led Dick away from his mess and sat him on an overturned liquor crate. Devoid of any obvious bodily fluids, Slade figured the crate was good as any place for the kid to rest in the otherwise filthy alley.

Wiping his hand across his mouth, Dick glared up at Slade, but its effect was diminished by the fact that Dick’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Instead of angry, the kid just looked fucking exhausted.

“That was unnecessary,” Dick said, his voice hoarse, most likely from the burn of the bile and alcohol that his stomach had just forcibly emptied. Slade was just relieved Dick’s voice was mostly devoid of slurring now.

“You were almost comatose, kid,” Slade said with an unimpressed raise of his eyebrow, “as far as I knew, you either had alcohol poisoning or were ODing on whatever pills were circling the club tonight.” 

Dick scoffed in response and made no effort at hiding the way he rolled his eyes at Slade’s insinuation before ultimately letting his eyes fall closed. The fact that Dick didn’t even respond was telling of itself, but Slade wasn’t going to make the kid voice what they both already knew. 

Now that Slade wasn’t coaxing Dick through a panic attack or shoving his fingers down the kid’s throat, he finally had time to really look at Dick.

The kid looked _tired_. And not the kind of tired that resulted from a night of drinking too much and partying a little too hard, but the kind of tired that was bone-deep and wore on the soul. A tired that resulted from weeks of sleepless nights and not just a couple of rough nights.

He could see it in the way that Dick’s body sagged against the come crusted alleyway wall, his head tilted towards the smog-ridden Gotham sky, eyes closed and breaths shaky. 

Dick was too pale and too thin, his features sharp and harsh, and made all the more pronounced by the purple bruising underneath his eyes. The boy’s eye makeup was streaked down his cheeks, his hair an unruly mess, and lips torn open with traces of blood clinging to them as if Dick himself had gnawed through them, and maybe he had.

Slade had never seen the boy look so utterly exhausted and worn. It was so fundamentally different from the damn near perfect picture Dick insisted on portraying to the world. There was something dark about this Dick Grayson, raw, wholly imperfect, something inherently ugly.

And yet, as cruel as it might be, Slade had never seen him look more beautiful.

xXx

It was Dick who eventually broke the silence between them.

“What do you want, Slade?” he asked, eyes still closed, and head still tilted towards the smog hidden stars, voice barely above a whisper.

Slade swallowed down the instinctive ‘you’ that threatened to rip its way out of his throat, knowing all too well that the one simple word was far too honest than he was ready to be. 

But at the same time, he knew that answering Dick’s question with anything other than ‘you’ would be a lie, and lie was one thing that Dick and he had never done to each other. So instead, he sat down on the abandoned liquor crate and put his arm around Dick’s too thin shoulders, hoping it would be enough of an answer.

Dick tensed under his touch, but Slade didn’t blame the kid. He couldn’t remember a time they had ever touched each other out of gentleness. 

Their relationship—if you could even call it that—consisted of rooftop chases and the clang of metal on metal, the dull thud of a well-placed kick or punch on body armor, an exchange of barbed words meant to hide the fact that neither one of them had seriously tried to injure or kill the other in years.

Sometimes the night would even end with their bodies pressed together and kisses that were more akin to bites than the soft joining of lips. 

But not this, never this. This moment was far too gentle. An intimacy that should be so simple, one that could even be shared between strangers offering comfort to one another, but yet, was so foreign between them that it felt obscene compared to the nights they’d rut against each other on abandoned rooftops until they were coming in their suits like horny teenagers.

This… _softness_ wasn’t them. It wasn’t Slade. But he couldn’t find it in himself to pull away from the boy. 

He eventually began to feel Dick relax against him, burrowing deeper into the one-armed embrace, accepting Slade’s gesture of comfort with one of his own as he wrapped his arms around Slade’s middle. The tenderness of the gesture was still entirely foreign to Slade. Yet, nothing between him and Dick had ever felt more right.

“You want to tell me what you were doing at Oblivion tonight?” Slade asked, trying not to let himself get distracted by how perfectly Dick felt under his arm.

“I could ask you the same thing,” came Dick’s mumbled reply, his breath warm against Slade’s collar where his head now rested.

“I was working a job. It was a bust,” Slade answered simply, unperturbed by Dick’s attempt at deflection, “Your turn.”

“It’s a club, Slade. What do you think I was doing?” Dick sighed, sounding more resigned than defensive. 

It showed just how tired the kid was if he wasn’t even giving Slade a lecture about how it wasn’t any of his damn business what Dick was or wasn’t doing. 

“You and I both know that Oblivion is different than your average night club.”

Dick remained silent, so Slade continued.

“You came here to forget, to self-destruct.” It wasn’t a question.

Dick hummed at this, “Well, why ask then if you already knew the answer?”

“Because what I really want to know is why.” 

Dick didn’t respond, and Slade didn’t really expect him to. Slade hadn’t asked a question but had merely made a statement, answering Dick’s own question.

It wasn’t until he heard a shuddering breath that he realized Dick was silently crying against him.

If Dick had been anyone else, Slade might have written him off as an overly emotional drunk, but he knew Dick Grayson and Dick Grayson didn’t cry over something as petty as being just a little too drunk to control his emotions. It only solidified Slade’s suspicion that there was far more to the story than Dick just having a shit night at the club.

He knew he should offer the boy words of comfort but he didn’t know what to say. God knew he had never been good at words, his failed marriage could testify to that. So, he did the only thing he could do, and pulled Dick into his lap, hugging the boy all the tighter.

He let Dick cry. He let him cry, and he gave him comfort in a dark alley that smelt of piss and vomit and had rats fucking in the corner. He gave him comfort in the only way that he knew how to, by holding him closer. And he hoped that it would be enough.

Slade could tell Dick was trying to hold back his tears with the way the kid's body shook against his.

It reminded him of the time that Grant was 9 and had flipped off the swing-set in their backyard, busting his knee open. It was one of the few times Slade had ever been left alone with Grant and Joey at home, and the first time he had ever had to deal with one of the boy's injuring themselves without Adeline being around to take over.

Grant had clung to him, wailing his head off and making it damn near impossible for Slade to tend to the boy's knee. Slade had eventually yanked Grant's arms away from where they had clung to his neck and snapped at him that 'boys don't cry,' parroting the words Slade's own father had once growled at him when he was a boy.

Grant had immediately snapped his mouth shut in an attempt to stifle his cries, but he couldn't hide the way his small frame jerked with each suppressed sob or the tears that continued to fall from his wide, shame-filled eyes. He had tried to wipe the tears away before Slade saw them, but Slade had seen them anyways. 

He was a scared and hurt little boy who needed his dad to comfort him, to show him an ounce of compassion, and all Slade had given him were three demeaning words.

Boys don't cry. 

"Cry, kid," Slade whispered into the tangled mess of Dick's hair, pressing his lips against Dick's head in a ghost of a kiss as he pushed away the memory of Grant, "nobody's going to see you but me, and I sure as hell won't judge you for it."

Dick's grip on Slade’s shirt tightened, and his stifled tears morphed into gasping sobs as he let go of the last bit of restraint he had been hanging onto. They were wet and ugly sobs, and Slade could feel the tears soaking through the thin material of his shirt. It wasn’t dissimilar to how Grant had once clung to him, but instead of pushing Dick away like he had Grant, Slade held onto the boy all the tighter, cradling Dick's head against his chest in answer to the way Dick clung to Slade as if he was afraid that Slade would let him slip away.

It was compassion that Slade offered to Dick, but it was also an apology to Grant.

xXx

"I- I fucked up, Slade. I fucked up so bad," was what broke the silence after Dick's sobs had turned into quiet whimperings and after those quiet whimperings had turned into hiccupped breaths traced with silent tears. Dick's head was still resting in the crook where Slade's neck met his shoulder. He couldn't see Dick's face as he spoke, but he could hear the anguish in the kid’s voice that was undoubtedly mirrored by his face.

Slade's first instinct was to tell Dick that whatever he had fucked up, Slade would unfuck it for him. But something in the tone of Dick’s voice stopped him.

"I'm Nightwing," Dick spat, the disgust in himself evident in the way he said 'Nightwing' like it was some bitter joke. 

It was the first time Slade had ever heard the kid talk about his hero alter-ego with anything other than pride.

"I should have stopped her. But I didn't."

The last three words were spoken flatly, and with the severity of a confession, the self-loathing and self-blame evident in each word., leaving Slade with even more questions than he had before. 

Slade's mind raced as he tried to recall any major events that had gone down in the superhero community that Dick might be blaming himself for. Slade was sure the kid was (wrongly) blaming himself for the shit that had gone down with Blockbuster and Chemo, but as far as Slade knew, Blockbuster and Chemo had nothing to do with a woman, one of the few clues the kid had given him in regards to what this was all about.

Part of Slade wondered if another Robin had been killed. It would make sense. Dick had always considered his younger brothers to be his responsibility, especially the al Ghul spawn, and it would explain why Dick was barely hanging on by a thread if one of his brothers was dead. It would also fit in the context of Dick not being able to stop 'her.' 'Her' could be a number of super villainesses, but Slade would put money on the al Ghul bitch, she'd already sliced and diced her own brat, and he wouldn't put it pass her trying again since it didn't stick the first time.

It all made sense, except for the glaringly obvious—Slade hadn't heard jack shit about a Robin, past or present, being killed recently.

A death of a Robin was usually big news, despite how often it happened (and unhappened), he was sure he would have already heard about it by now, especially with the circles he ran in. He also knew that Dick wouldn't be fucking around in Oblivion if there had been another death in the family. He'd be holed up with the rest of the Bats, figuring out how they were going to raise another Robin back from the dead. 

The kid might gripe about his family, especially about the big bad Bat himself, but when shit hit the fan, Dick was always there when it mattered. Hell, Dick was the goddamn glue holding that clusterfuck of a family together half the time, and nothing mattered to Dick more than the Bats. Which brought up another question, what was so bad that Dick wasn't turning to his family for support? It sure as hell wasn't a death in the family, but Slade didn't know what else it could be.

None of it made any damn sense.

Slade didn't have to ponder for long though, his unspoken question was soon inadvertently answered by three little words that could have meant anything but told Slade everything. 

"I said no," Dick said this flatly, devoid of emotion and feeling.

“I said no,” Dick repeated, this time a bit surer, albeit a bit more broken, as if he were trying to convince himself more than Slade that he had said no.

Slade could feel the desperation in the three words as they were whispered against his throat, Dick’s face still hidden in the crook of his neck. 

It wasn’t hard for Slade to read between the lines. He’d have to be an idiot not to understand what the kid was getting at. What those three little words—that should have meant everything at the moment they were spoken—were referring to. What it meant had happened since those three words were ignored.

The rage he felt at the revelation was expected. The devastation was not.

“Who?” he gritted out, not trusting himself to say anything else, too aware that he might start snarling if he did. His hands were already twitching with the impulse to shoot something or preferably someone, but he steadied them by holding onto Dick tighter, anchoring himself and his rage to the boy.

At his question, he felt Dick momentarily go rigid against him before relaxing back into Slade’s embrace. 

“What do you mean who?” Dick said far too casually, but it was too late for false causality. The kid had shown his hand the second he had tensed up at the question. He knew exactly what Slade was asking.

“You know what I mean,” Slade said, not unkindly, but no longer willing to skate around the topic at Dick’s leisure, “Who _raped_ you, Dick?”

And then Dick was abruptly pulling away from Slade, getting to his feet so that they were no longer touching. He stumbled as he attempted to put distance between himself and Slade, obviously still affected by the alcohol and drugs in his system.

Slade wanted to reach out and steady Dick, but he knew the action would be seen as threatening and only cause Dick more distress. So he sat there, on that damn overturned liquor crate, helpless as he watched Dick’s hands and knees connect with the rough and dirtied ground.

To Slade’s relief, Dick didn’t stay down long and managed to pull himself back up to a standing, though, slightly swaying position. Despite Dick’s change in stance, Slade remained seated, wanting to give Dick the higher ground and hopefully a sense of control. 

“How do you know it was rape? That I didn’t really want it?” Dick snarled in quick succession, his face was twisted in disgusted anger, but Slade could tell it wasn’t directed at him but rather at Dick, himself.

“Because you said no,” Slade said softly but firmly, not letting his eye stray from Dick’s own. 

Dick scoffed at his answer, obviously not impressed with its simplicity, but as far as Slade was concerned, simple was precisely what this situation was. 

“You don’t know that. I could be lying.”

“But you’re not.”

“You don’t even know the whole story—”

“I don’t need to!” Slade interrupted, abruptly and unintentionally jumping to his feet. He was surprised by the own strength of his voice, the rawness and near desperation lacing the anger in it.

He immediately sat back down, shell-shocked that he had lost control like that, even if it was only for a second. 

Slade must have stunned Dick as much as he’d stunned himself, considering the boy just stared at him with his mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something but had lost his train of thought. Slade’s only consolation was that his outburst hadn’t seemed to have frightened the kid, but rather only caused a bout of muteness. 

Dick’s eyes stayed transfixed on Slade’s own silver eye, giving Slade the impression Dick was searching for something. Deceit? Genuineness? He didn’t know, but he refused to let his eye waver from Dick’s gaze until the boy found what he was looking for. 

What Slade did know was that whatever evil bitch had forced herself onto Dick would be dead within a day of him learning her name.

But for tonight, he was willing to let Dick keep the name to himself. There was something distinctly fragile in the way Dick looked, and Slade was afraid if he pushed too hard, too soon the boy might shatter in his hands. 

“Why?” Dick asked, his voice pained. And with the question, Slade came to the realization that Dick hadn’t been searching Slade’s face for authenticity but for an explanation.

“Kid, you haven’t been paying attention if you think I’d ever choose or believe anyone else over you.”

The words came unbidden and were more honest than Slade was used to being. They were both a confession and a weakness that could be exploited, but he said them anyway.

Dick didn’t reply, but Slade noticed that tears had begun to gather at the corner of the boy’s blue eyes, making them glisten in a way that reminded Slade of ripples in a lake after skipping a rock across its surface. 

The tears came soundlessly and were so different from the stifled and gasping sobs that had shook the boy’s body earlier. He wondered if Dick even noticed he was crying again.

Standing up from his spot on the crate, Slade slowly reached out and took Dick’s cheek into the palm of his hand. The boy shivered under his touch, but he didn’t pull away. Slade took it as the silent permission that it was and ran his thumb across Dick’s cheek, wiping away the tears that seemed to have become a permanent feature on the boy’s face.

Dick instinctively leaned into the caress, cupping Slade’s hand with his own. His eyes fluttered closed as a shaky breath escaped him.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but I swear to you, kid, you’re going be okay. I’m going to make sure you are.” It was an offer, a declaration, but above all else, a vow. 

“I believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Vomiting, Intoxication, References to Past Rape (Not necessarily in that order)
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please consider providing me with serotonin in the form of kudos and COMMENTS ;) I always love hearing what y’all’s favorite parts were.
> 
> Side Note: I hope you liked the giant mercenary teddy bear (aka Slade Wilson) featured in this fic 😉
> 
> Come find me and more BatFam and Slade goodness on tumblr @thewaynemanner


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